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There's nothing nicer than getting a round of applause for turning up for work. It's amazing! You start work, and people clap. Do you know what I mean? And then they stand up and clap at the end.

In the procession I should feel the crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and stifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march.

I need the applause.

I shall begin my march for Camp tomorrow morning. It was not in my power to move until I could procure shoes for the troops almost barefoot.

Really, I'm only alive out of curiosity. I'm very curious about where we're all marching.

Even when folks are hitting you over the head, you can't stop marching. Even when they're turning the hoses on you, you can't stop.

As they marched, the crowds lining the route broke into applause, a sweet and deeply felt spontaneous pattering that was a sort of communal embrace. Welcome home.

I suggest that ten thousand Negroes march on Washington, D.C., the capital of the Nation, with the slogan, 'We loyal Negro American citizens demand the right to work and fight for our country.'

We should not clap our hands and mourn, for he is out of trouble. You are still in it.

The lights go down, you hear the applause and you're up there, and then everything else is forgotten.